


The Seafarer's Conundrum

by Saucery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anger, Antagonism, BAMF Harry, Boats and Ships, Body Worship, Class Differences, Class Issues, Daddy Issues, Desire, Drama Queen Draco, Fanon Draco, Foe Yay, Getting Together, Hate to Love, Historical Inaccuracy, Love/Hate, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Muscles, Opposites Attract, Power Dynamics, Privilege, Resentment, Romance, Sailing, Sarcasm, Snark, Travel, Trust Issues, Wealth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5869681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the turn of the twentieth century, and Draco Malfoy is the unwilling heir of a vast shipping empire. When his father sends him on an educational voyage to the Americas, Draco finds himself sharing a discomfiting journey with Harry Potter, the infuriating captain of the ship.</p><p>But how much of that discomfiture is lust?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seafarer's Conundrum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltybatman](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=saltybatman).



> For **acearorey** , formerly **saltybatman** , in response to [this](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/138440185001/these-photos-got-me-thinking-about-drarry) lovely (and eminently enabling) photoset.
> 
> And as for Harry’s ship itself... We’re just pretending that steamships hadn’t been invented by the 1900s. Shh. I need Draco to travel with Harry for a sufficiently lengthy period of time, and it wouldn’t be sufficiently lengthy on a speedy steamship, now, would it?

* * *

 

The shipyard was filthy, with mud squelching beneath his boots. Or, to be more accurate, fish entrails and garbage and excrement lovingly trampled into the mud, until it was a stinking, slippery mess of _stuff_  that Draco was doing his best not to think about.

He’d rather be suspended upside-down by his toes—as per the repeated threats of the Malfoys’ aged, disturbingly sadistic groundskeeper, Filch—than do the rounds of the yard, but here he was. Father’s far more terrifying threat of cutting off Draco’s allowance had brought him here.

According to Lucius Malfoy’s most recent appraisal of his son, Draco was an irresponsible reprobate and an embarrassment to the family. If Draco didn’t show signs of genuine repentance, and didn’t give up his gambling and his carnal misadventures with practically every single, ha, “member” of the British nobility—married or unmarried—he would be disowned and left to fend for himself.

Draco was far too attached to the Malfoy fortune for _that_.

And so he was at the docks, concluding a mind-numbingly boring tour, with Pettigrew, the porcine assistant assigned to him, tagging along and frantically scribbling notes. Draco didn’t bother checking them for errors, because if the facts and figures didn’t add up, then, well, it would be Pettigrew’s neck under the guillotine. Not Draco’s. All Draco would have to do would be to paint Pettigrew’s incompetence as sabotage.

Now came the worst part—boarding a ship to America, the horrifyingly named _Deathly Hallows_. How anyone dared to load anything onto a ship with such an unlucky, morbid name, Draco didn’t know. Apparently, it carried produce from the plentiful Malfoy plantations, and Father insisted that Draco experience the reality of the shipping industry prior to inheriting the largest shipping empire on earth.

Draco’s baggage had been sent ahead, not for convenience but because Father was holding Draco’s wardrobe hostage. He’d ordered some servant or another to cram all of Draco’s most beloved outfits into five massive crates, and by the time Draco had awoken this afternoon, lethargic with a post-orgy haze, his clothes were gone.

If the matter had been as simple as re-tailoring his brocaded jackets and silk waistcoats, Draco would have tossed money at the problem until it was solved, but among Draco’s clothes were irreplaceable treasures, including specially-designed, entirely unique masterpieces from the maestros of European fashion. If Draco wanted them back, he’d have to follow them onto the _Deathly Hallows_.

So, onboard he went. He trudged up the gangplank, noting the hulking size of the ship, and once he was upon the deck, he noticed that it was clean. Cleaner than the shipyard, at least. Thank god.

The sailors moving about the ship, however, were not as clean. They were scruffy, disreputable-seeming louts, and Draco was as loathe to address them as he would be to hold conversations with lice. A disgusted shudder ran through him at the thought of shaking hands with one of these... creatures. He’d probably end up contracting leprosy.

Then, he saw It—a sight so shockingly pornographic that he nearly tripped on a jutting board.

“It” was a back, broad and bare and solid as a tree-trunk, rippling with muscle, with strong, wiry arms that bunched and corded as their owner lugged a giant rope over the bow of the ship.

“Pardon me,” Draco said, breathlessly, and It turned, revealing a torso just as obscene as the back, and glistening with perspiration, besides. It was as though Draco had found a Roman gladiator on a British dock. A block of freshly-carved, distressingly attractive marble in Michelangelo’s studio. Would wonders never cease?

The sailor regarded Draco with narrow, incongruously green eyes. He had an unshaven, savage face, narrower than Draco had expected, tigerish and guarded, and somehow handsome despite the scar that marred his forehead. “Who the hell’re you?”

What? How rude! “A man not in a state of scandalous undress,” Draco retorted, despite having appreciated that very undress. “Shouldn’t you put a shirt on?”

“Perhaps Your Highness isn’t accustomed to hard work,” said the increasingly disappointing faux gladiator, “but those of us that labor drenched in our sweat do better without shirts.”

Draco ignored the words “drenched” and “sweat,” mostly for the sake of his own sanity, particularly when those words were juxtaposed with the mental image of what a shirt would’ve looked like if the sailor had left it on. “I am Lucius Malfoy’s son. Draco Malfoy. It would be in your best interests to speak to me with respect.”

“Ah,” said the barbarian. “So you’re the brat we’re meant to be governesses to, on this trip.”

Draco spluttered. “Brat? You’re my age!”

“In years alone, I’m sure.”

“Direct me to your captain,” Draco said through gritted teeth, “and I’ll ensure you spend _years alone_ , without a ship or a crew.”

The man’s lips twitched.

“Take me to the captain!” Draco repeated, infuriated at the prospect of having amused this philistine. “I certainly shan’t converse any further with a... a mere deckhand!”

There was a long silence.

Finally, the sailor spoke, strangely choked, as if restraining his laughter. “You’re looking at him.”

“At whom?”

“The captain.”

Draco stared. And stared. “No,” he whispered, in horror.

“Yes,” said the captain, smirking. “Oh, yes.”

“You aren’t wearing a captain’s uniform.”

“The same stodgy uniform that prevents me from being of use on my own ship?”

“That’s hardly appropriate to your station.”

“Being appropriate isn’t as important as being useful, by my ken.”

“And what are you called?”

“I’m Captain Harry Potter.”

“Shouldn’t you be a potter, then? Given your name?”

“Shouldn’t you be dignified, then? Given your name?”

“I’m your employer!” Draco almost shouted.

“No, your father is. And he all but begged me to captain his fastest transatlantic ship, so I doubt he’d sack me over the complaints of a son he’s ashamed of.”

Draco’s vision went red. He was actually speechless with rage. He opened his mouth to insult Potter, but all that emerged was a strangled sound.

“That must the eloquence the Malfoys are famous for,” Potter said. “Or were famous for, I suppose.”

“You—you—”

“Ron, take Mr. Malfoy to his... cabin... would you?”

“Roger,” said a redheaded, freckled, devilishly grinning youth in a dirty smock, materializing out of nowhere. “My pleasure, Cap’n.”

“I’m not done, here!” Draco shrieked, and flinched when the Scarlet Devil reached toward him. “Don’t touch me!”

“None of us would dare touch you, Mr. Malfoy,” Potter drawled. “Why, our hands would slide right off that smooth skin.” A hungry light entered his eyes. “Is it smoother than that suit of yours?”

Was that—it couldn’t be—

While Draco was a master of promiscuity, he had _standards_. And lusting after an impudent, uncivilized peasant wasn’t among them. Even if said peasant was lusting after him, in return.

“I’ll have you exiled from every British port there is,” he hissed, gathering his allegedly nonexistent dignity around him like a cloak.

“I’ll be surprised if you know every British port,” Potter said.

Draco harrumphed and whirled around, snapping his fingers at Pettigrew, who’d been cowering behind Draco like a wince in human form. “Lead me to my cabin,” he said to the Scarlet Devil, imperiously, taking command of the situation.

He didn’t look back at Potter even once.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might seem odd that Harry couldn't identify Draco on sight, but my bet is that he did, and just wanted to piss Draco off. Heh.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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